All Elbows and Knees
by Consulting Centurion
Summary: Sherlock teaches John how to dance. Slash JW/SH, fluff.


**Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock, yadda yadda and all that jazz. This is just a little drabble about Sherlock teaching John to dance.**

Song: You Raise Me Up by Celtic Women (Now I just picked this song because it was what I was listening to, but it's not 100% the true story song).

**All Elbows and Knees**

"Argh! I feel ridiculous!" John Watson cried, throwing his hands up in the air. "This is completely pointless, Sherlock. It's a lost cause." His lover shook his hand and pulled the good doctor back to him.

"You just have to be patient, John. Be patient and _follow me_."

"I've been _following you_ for the last _hour_, and I've _still _not got the hang of it!" The doctor wriggled in the detectives arms, frustrated.

"Look, it's easy, you just follow my steps, move with me. You arm goes there...no, like this...and there...quit grabbing my bum and _liste–_–John Watson do you want me to teach you or not?" Sherlock started swatting at the good doctor's hands, which were lowering themselves into inappropriate places. John giggled and clasp his hands behind his back, a picture of innocence.

Sherlock Holmes was attempting to teach one John H. Watson to dance. And that one John H. Watson was not catching on quickly (it seems that he was more interested in Sherlock Holmes' rather wonderful arse).

John sighed and put on his most studious face and with all good intentions (for he _is _the good doctor) he tried to contained himself. He nodded for his boyfriend to continue–trying not to think about how adorable Sherlock's frustrations are.

"_Like I was saying_," Sherlock started, pulling John back toward him. "Take my right hand, and your left goes there," he placed the doctor's hand on his shoulder, "and when I step one way," he nudged with his foot, "you _follow._" John mimicked his steps, eventually stepping on Sherlock's toes and swearing a bit (a lot). Sherlock–when he is so inclined–can be the picture of patience, and for John H. Watson, he was so inclined. So the detective encouragingly squeezed his lover's hand and started again.

"You've got to move with the music, love, the rhythm is the guide," the detective told his doctor, who, after one hour and fourteen minutes, had finally mastered (Sherlock used that term very liberally) the steps, and it was now Sherlock's mission to imprint the instinct to move _with _the music. As it turns out, John was horribly and completely (and _adorably, _Sherlock had to admit) without rhythm. Sherlock was an excellent dancer–a product of his and Mycroft's upbringing–and in saying that, he knew how to lead, but that this point he was almost dragging John around the floor, knocking knees and stepping on toes, when it came to dancing with the music.

"I'm trying!" John _was_ trying in earnest, his brain not connecting the beat of the music to the steps of his feet. He was just about to give up when Sherlock had an idea.

"Just wait a second," he still John, "let's try a different approach to this." He stepped back and took both John's hands. "Try just swaying in time with the music," he shifted his weight back and forth, rolling it between his hips–which mesmerized John, _How is he able to move his hips like _that? It was most distracting to the good doctor–his torso following fluidly with the rest of him. Sherlock tugged at John's arms, willing him to try, too. The doctor tentatively copied Sherlock, not quite in sync. Sherlock ran his finger tips lightly over John's eyelids, which fluttered shut at his love's touch. "Close your eyes, _hear _the music, _feel _it." Sherlock stepped closer, laying the same hand on John's chest "It's like the beat of your heart, the rhythm of your breathing; let the music sink into you, don't just try to follow it, be a _part_ of it." Sherlock took John's hand again, this time tugging both of the good doctor's hands up and around his neck, and pulling him up flush with his chest, he wrapped his arms around the shorter man's waist. They moved together, John's eyes still closed, focusing on letting the music wash through him and allowing himself to be pulled and pushed by its beat.

John didn't know how long he had been swaying back and forth with Sherlock, he stopped tracking the time and drifted off, letting his other senses be filled–with the sound of Sherlock's deep baritone voice humming along with the music, the sweet spice and soap smell of Sherlock's skin, the feel of his hands around his waist, the heat burning through his jumper–when he felt Sherlock move his hands, taking one of John's from his shoulder and transforming their standstill sway, into a waltz. John intentionally kept his eyes closed, trying to focus on the music, letting Sherlock guide him.

The two men circled the living room of 221b Baker Street countless times, with every turn, John becoming more and more comfortable; eventually he stopped stepping on Sherlock's feet. After a while, John nearly forgot that he was being taught, so drawn up in the moment of Sherlock's arms, completely lost in the wonder of just how _graceful _Sherlock was. The music shifted from waltz to waltz, eventually coming to a slow and wistful piece. Sherlock slowed accordingly, pulling John closer to him. The good doctor laid his head on his detective's shoulder, keeping his eyes happily shut; he sighing in contentment. Sherlock documented the song, storing it for later usage–he also committed this entire moment to his hard drive, for a time when he was lonely and missing his John. When the last few notes of the song resonated throughout the room, Sherlock dipped John back, cradling the man in his arms.

The world's only consulting detective leaned down and placed a warm kiss on his lover's lips before whispering in his ear, _"I knew you could do it."_

**A/N: So, there it is! Comments, anyone? I'm considering possibly making a plot arc out of this–perhaps a special occasion in which John H. Watson must dance? I'd love some feedback, some suggestions, requests! Merci beaucoup xx **


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